I knew I wanted to be a mother from the very beginning. It was never a question. The only real questions were when? and how many? As for the how many, the answer, since my early 20s, has always been six.
Being a mom is one of the hardest things that I do. And one of the most rewarding. At the end of a long day, after ushering them through camp and swimming lessons (and a full day of work), we go through the bath, dinner, story, bed routine. I fall into bed shortly after.
I referee. I administer band-aids. And hugs. And listen. And steer. And love. And laugh. Console. Advise. And beat my head against the wall. Not all necessarily in that order.
It’s a tough gig. As my fellow moms can attest. I want them to feel loved. And safe. And happy. Always and forever. And sometimes, through all that, it never seems enough.
I try to carve out one-on-one time with the kids on a monthly basis. I think they need that. A connection with me that doesn’t have to be shared. No interrupting. No talking over their siblings. No competing. Complete and unadulterated attention.
Madeline and I planned a date for this past weekend. Mystic’s daughter watched Nick (making this chicken parm), while Madeline and I escaped to dinner and a movie. She’s had a trying time with Nick the past week. She is patient to the nth degree, but had had enough. She had quietly voiced her opinions about it to both Mystic and I separately. My heart breaking as I listened to her words.
We both needed our Mom-and-me date.